


A Problem of Basic Logic

by cassyl



Series: Rhetorical Analysis [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aristotle disapproves, M/M, sex on the stairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks he knows what Sherlock wants, but there's a flaw in his reasoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Problem of Basic Logic

**Author's Note:**

> John's side of "Interpretive Failure."

John has been sitting here all afternoon, trying to write up their most recent case, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to get it right.

It’s not as though the case was complicated, at least not by their standards. Some back alley surgeon was abducting undocumented immigrants and carving out their organs to sell on the black market. Textbook, really, but the _what_ wasn’t what interested Sherlock in the case. Scotland Yard had that side of things covered. It was the _how_ that caught Sherlock’s attention: neither the mad doctor nor any of his accomplices – one was actually named Igor, and John had only laughed harder when Sherlock couldn’t understand what was so funny about that – anyway, none of them owned a car, and no vehicles had been hired by anyone involved, so the question was, how were the organs being transported? They couldn’t very well have just walked the organs out of the hotels where the victims were found – someone would have spotted that, and, besides, there was a ticking clock on fresh body parts, so just strolling along with a kidney in a cooler wouldn’t do. As it turned out, the killers were using room service carts, carrying the organs out on ice and taking the service elevator to the kitchens, where a bicycle messenger picked up the packages and ferried them to the buyers. “Not bad,” Sherlock pronounced approvingly to the courier once John had obligingly knocked him from his bicycle. “Not as quick as driving, but much harder to track.” The man, lying at their feet on the pavement, only groaned.

Now that it’s over, it all seems perfectly obvious. That’s just how it works with Sherlock: he understands from the outset what nobody else can, and in retrospect the solution always seems utterly inevitable.

If John’s being honest, though, the problem he’s having isn’t with the case itself. The problem is that every time he starts to write it up, what comes out is, _I think I’m in love with my flatmate._ Not necessarily in so many words, but it’s there, always, subtext or just text, and the thought of Sherlock reading that in plain black and white is too much for John to handle.

It’s not the fact that he’s in love with Sherlock that troubles him. He knew from the first moment they met that Sherlock was the sort of bloke he could fancy, lean and nimble and just a little bit (all right, more than a little bit) wild. Sherlock has some windblown quality that John can’t seem to get enough of, like he’s living life ever so slightly faster than everyone else, which John supposes is true, in a way. And beyond the physical, well, that didn’t take very long to figure out, either. The man’s a marvel, like no one else John’s ever met. Of course he’d fall for Sherlock. How could he not?

And he’s fine with that, he is. He doesn’t mind the very real possibility that he’s in love with Sherlock Holmes. He can live with that, has lived with it for a while now. That’ll keep.

He knows Sherlock doesn’t feel that way – not just about him, but about anyone. It’s basic logic:

**Major Premise:** Sherlock is not sexually attracted to other people.  
 **Minor Premise:** John is a person.  
 **Conclusion:** Sherlock is not attracted to John.

The fact that Sherlock isn’t capable of loving him in return doesn’t bother him, either. John doesn’t need to be loved back for his love to mean something, he knows that.

Really, he considers himself lucky that Sherlock notices him at all. Sure, some days he’s just another stand-in for Sherlock’s beloved skull, but John knows better than to be offended by that. He knows he matters to Sherlock, as much as anyone can matter to him. In fact, John is fairly certain that Sherlock almost sees him as a real person sometimes, and that’s about as much as he can hope for. It’s quite a lot, actually. There aren’t many people of whom that’s true: excepting Moriarty and Irene Adler (whom Sherlock certainly counts as equals, or almost equals, but whom John discounts on principle), Mrs. Hudson is the only other one John’s sure of; Lestrade and Molly Hooper may count, although that’s confused by the fact that both of them provide Sherlock with something he desperately needs; Mycroft may also be on the list, but in his case it’s more because Sherlock has ample experiential evidence of his brother’s human frailties than because he’s ever displayed anything remotely resembling a heart. But that’s it – five people, tops, in the whole world who Sherlock might, possibly, believe have thoughts and feelings of their own, and John is proud to be one of them.

But the fact remains that, for all Sherlock may be aware John has emotions, he doesn’t actually understand what that means. At least, John doesn’t think he does. And the idea of Sherlock looking him up and down and deducing that John’s sun rises and sets for him – it’s unbearable, because he knows that it wouldn’t mean anything to him.

Which is why he’s deleted every draft he’s written over the past four hours. In fact, he’s completely given up on the blog for the moment, having lapsed into listlessly checking Facebook, not because he cares about any of these people but because he needs something, anything, to distract him from the feeling of Sherlock’s eyes on him.

He doesn’t know when it got to be so difficult to keep a lid on his feelings. It’s not like they came as some great surprise. John’s not a man prone to middle of the night revelations. He knows his own mind. He knows he’s devoted to Sherlock, and he knows Sherlock is devoted to him, in his own way. And he knows that anything more than that is wishful thinking. If he’s ever felt anything like desire for anyone, he’s never expressed it to John, and why should he? The work is all that matters to Sherlock, and Sherlock’s company is all that matters to John. He can live with wanting Sherlock and never having him, if it means he gets to stay here and watch Sherlock do what he does best. He doesn’t need more than that, he really doesn’t. Or he wouldn’t, if Sherlock would stop saying his name in that way that makes his spine spark.

It really has gotten bad. Lately even the slightest touch is torture, bumping knees on their way into a cab, the careless brush of Sherlock’s thumb against his wrist as he passes Sherlock a cup of tea. The man is always underfoot these days, but John must be imagining it, has to be. How else is he meant to explain the way Sherlock seems to stand so close, his chest almost touching John’s back as he reads the paper over John’s shoulder, his hair brushing John’s ear as they share a look into a microscope?

It’s driving him mad.

Right now, for instance – sitting here in the living room, trying to write, he can feel Sherlock watching him as he lounges on the sofa. He feels hyper-sensitized, like Sherlock’s done something to his nerve endings. Every time Sherlock shifts on the sofa, John feels his body move in response, like they’re magnetized. And yet, he knows that Sherlock is just looking, that it’s no different from all the other thousand times he’s stared at John.

Or take last week, when Sherlock was electrifying a sow’s heart in their kitchen and John walked in just in time to be splattered with myocardium when it exploded. Sherlock had looked up at him and it was like—like someone had only just invented John’s face and Sherlock had never seen anything more interesting in his life. He’d stood up and stepped close to John, much too close, really, and wiped a fleck of gore from John’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. Standing there, covered in pig viscera, all he could think of was Sherlock’s hand on his face, and it shouldn’t have turned him on, but it did and, Christ, how is John supposed to deal with that?

Mostly, John has been dealing with it by wanking a lot. The thought that Sherlock undoubtedly knows is a bit humiliating, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that at least Sherlock doesn’t suspect what he’s thinking of as he does it. What he thinks about, of course – all he thinks about, it sometimes feels – is Sherlock: his hands and mouth and tongue and teeth, his long legs and narrow chest, the smooth column of his throat. He thinks about Sherlock’s body above him, bearing down into him, and he thinks about slipping his fingers inside the other man and making him come like that, wrung-out, limbs trembling. He imagines stretching Sherlock out on his bed and kissing everywhere he can reach, imagines Sherlock’s glass-smooth nails digging into his back.

John’s also started going out to get away from him. It’s not Sherlock’s fault, he knows, but he just needs some space. A pint followed by a long walk in the park helps clear his head. And then he can come home restored, ready to face another round of Sherlock’s unintentional sensual onslaught.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock were doing it on purpose, but he does know better. Sherlock isn’t – doesn’t – can’t. It’s all in his head, John knows that, but he can’t help being drawn in by every little move that Sherlock makes.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John, obediently, looks up. Sherlock is sitting up now, leaning forward on his knees, eyes bright, which usually means he’s made a breakthrough on a case. Only they’re not working on anything at the moment, and so John waits. Sherlock is staring at him expectantly, which makes John’s whole chest constrict and a little shiver of anticipation run along his spine. John feels himself getting caught in that gaze, and it’s too much – he can’t – and so he returns his attention to his laptop instead.

When Sherlock stands up a moment later, John says a silent word of thanks. Maybe once he’s out from under Sherlock’s painstaking scrutiny, he’ll be able to get himself in check. But the next second, Sherlock is standing right in front of him, leaning in, one of his hands is on the arm of the chair. John wills himself not to reach out and pull him close and press his open mouth to that sharp hip.

Sherlock’s other hand insinuates itself between them and then, oh, God, he’s reaching between them – closing the laptop, some distant part of his brain supplies – and John can’t breathe.

“Er,” he starts, but there’s too much going on right now and he can’t make sense of it all: Sherlock’s shadow and his chest and the clean tang of his skin, which smells only of skin, no aftershave, which John loves. Under the hot weight of his computer, his cock twitches, and John tries to draw himself in, away from Sherlock’s hand. This has got to stop, because John honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s touched. “Sherlock, what are you—”

“I should think that would be obvious,” he says, but it’s not obvious to John. It’s not obvious at all, until he’s kissing John and it is, perfectly – incredibly – clear.

“Oh,” John says. Sherlock’s mouth mobile and warm and, God, he’s wanted this so much. And that’s what freezes him, what makes his hands itch to push Sherlock away, because he’s wanted this, yes, but what about Sherlock? Sherlock, who never thinks twice about love or sex or even other people, really. John doesn’t want this if this if it’s just a pity shag. Knowing Sherlock, he’s probably noticed John’s feelings and come up with a plan to get the tension out of the way and move on.

Except then Sherlock is kissing him in a way John didn’t even dare imagine, tasting him like he’s desperate for it, oh, John really is an idiot, because he’s going to do this thing, consequences be damned. He’s going to regret this tomorrow, he’s sure, but right now he can’t bring myself to care.

He anchors one hand in Sherlock’s hair – good Lord, his hair – and pulls him in. Apparently, Sherlock doesn’t need any more encouragement, because the next second Sherlock’s hands are all over him, and John can’t take it, can’t wait any longer, and they’re staggering up out of the armchair and towards the stairs and, holy hell, this is really happening.

They’re halfway up the stairs when the scrape of Sherlock’s teeth on his throat makes the whole world shudder and John’s legs can’t support him for a second, but Sherlock’s got him, catches them just before they hit the stairs, and his elbow is screaming where it knocked against the wall but it doesn’t bloody matter because every inch of Sherlock is right on top of him and this is absolutely the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to him.

That is, until he feels those long, clever fingers undoing his jeans, and then John is rapidly reevaluating his standards.

“Oh, Christ,” he swears, because this is, apparently, an evening for incredible occurrences. He never let himself think this could happen, can’t even quite believe it’s happening now, but it is, it is, Sherlock’s mouth and hands on him and it’s all John can do to hang on.

His whole body jerks against the stairs at the touch of Sherlock’s thumb on the head of his cock, and then Sherlock does it again and John thinks, _This is going to leave marks_ , but he wants them. He wants it all.

His hands go to Sherlock’s backside, dragging him in closer, slipping a thigh between his legs and the only thing better than the hot press of Sherlock’s cock is the way Sherlock’s mouth slides sideways as he gasps at John’s touch. It’s everything John’s never allowed himself to contemplate: Sherlock touching him, kissing him, wanting him, and before he can get a warning out, he’s coming, his whole body convulsing like he’s been electrified.

When John comes back to himself a second later, all he can think about is the fact that Sherlock’s erection is still pressing against his thigh, and so he marshals his trembling limbs and tries to get the man’s trousers off. It’s tough work when his fingers still feel like they’re not completely connected to his hands, but the way Sherlock bucks into his touch is very good incentive. Finally, he gets Sherlock’s clothes down around his thighs and, fuck, his cock is fucking perfect.

John wants to swallow him down whole, but trapped as he is between Sherlock’s legs, he can’t get the right leverage, and so he settles for closing his hand tight around Sherlock’s cock.

He’s rewarded immediately when a tremor goes through Sherlock’s whole body and his mouth falls open to let out a frankly indecent sound. There’s a blush surging up Sherlock’s chest, the way there is when they’ve just run halfway across London after some criminal, and, Jesus, John could watch this all night. He could watch this for the rest of his life.

Sherlock glances down and catches him watching, and the look in his eyes sends a shock down to John’s still-sensitive dick, and John is so caught in that look that it takes him by surprise when Sherlock comes, hot and sudden, all over his hand.

“Fuck,” he says when Sherlock sags back down on top of him, because he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t, _I have dreams about sucking you off_ , or, _I love you_.

Sherlock makes a low sound of assent that makes John’s cock hope vainly for round two. The delicate ends of his hair are tickling the side of John’s neck. “Finally.”

John’s breath, what little there is, punches out of him. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock leans back to look him in the eye. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for weeks,” he says matter-of-factly, like they both knew this.

“You what?” John asks, feeling suddenly rather outside his body.

“I think I’ve made my interest perfectly clear.”

John thinks of all the weeks of silent, futile longing he’s endured, thinking he was imaging the heat in Sherlock’s looks. He thinks of the fact that Sherlock wiping pig viscera from his face almost caused him to come in his trousers. “You—? All that, the—the—touching and the smoldering gazes, that was _on purpose_?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, “what else?”

“I thought that was just—”

As he lies there on the stairs, it occurs to John that this is a problem of basic logic: if he begins with a false premise, he’s going to wind up with a false conclusion. Like the premise that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have any interest in sex.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’ve spent weeks – _weeks_ – thinking I was going mad, seeing things just because I wanted to see them.” He reaches out to thump Sherlock in the arm, but the blow doesn’t have much strength behind his, his arm still too weak to cooperate fully. “Why didn’t you just say something, you prat?”

Sherlock frowns, like he still doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. Probably he doesn’t. “I didn’t think I had to.”

Because of course. Like always, John is two steps behind Sherlock and, like always, the solution always seems utterly inevitable in retrospect. “Only you, Sherlock,” John says wonderingly, “would expect someone to _deduce_ that you wanted to shag them.”

“But you’re clear on that point now?” he asks, and the question so earnest that John can’t help smiling – can’t help, in fact, kissing him.

“Quite clear.”


End file.
